Eulogy for a Chicken Bowl and A Number One:

With a Coke.

Where do I even begin? Countless strands of memory weave a tapestry of a life lived under subpar fluorescent lighting. 
Like individual frames on a film reel, the moments that make up my connected adult stream of consciousness, have always contained in the background a tightly packed Styrofoam container.
Decent rice, acceptable teriyaki chicken, a singular piece of broccoli to maintain the illusion of a complete meal.
Most importantly, cheap. Four dollars I think? Certainly not anymore, but back then? I'm straining to remember, and that's an enduring sign of its constant fixture in my life.
Affordable, for a kid handed a ten from a laissez-faire adult and told to have fun at the mall.

I don't remember who introduced me to it, -or even the first time I had it. I’d like to say a long-lost friend shared it with me, excited to pass on something they loved. But more likely? I copied a stranger because their food looked good.
 
It doesn't matter how it started, it's important because it endured.

I took my first girlfriend to get one, not one of my better ideas, she was vegetarian. Months later, I swallowed the heartbreak of a first breakup alongside the chicken. Once a friend ate the entire glob of wasabi for a dare and sobbed from the pain. I don’t remember which friend exactly—though I have a few suspects. It was the first meal I got on my own after getting my driver's license. For my first midnight Black Friday, the chicken bowl was the obvious meal of choice. My friends and I bought matching hoodies, I wore mine for years. Little inside jokes. An ice cold shoulder. Mario at the shopping mall. No soap radio. The despair after a failed test or a moment of triumph paired with teriyaki. Celebrations after a new job. Falling in love again, slowly this time. Friends getting married. Friends getting divorced. Reconnecting with old friends, stolen moments between work meetings. Moving overseas and coming home, still it was there. 

I remember. 

Countless little moments. And I’m sure there are more—just as precious—already lost to time.

Today I had an eye exam, and I was in the area—hungry. The solution was obvious. But to my horror, the mall stand was gone. They’d moved, apparently. New name, new location. But when I checked the menu… no chicken bowl. I had one just a week ago with friends. If I’d known it was the last, I would have really tasted it. The truth is—you rarely know when it’s the last time. The last time your parents pick you up. The last time you say goodbye to someone, not knowing it’ll be forever. The last night you spend with someone you love. The last time you eat your shitty mall food.

It was supposed to always be there.
I should’ve savored it.

But I'm lucky, always have been. Maybe I'm just an optimist. They made me my meal off menu, a chicken bowl, a number one. This might not be the literal last time I eat it—but it’s the end.
I took it to go, and I went upstairs to the food court, and I sat where I always sat. 

And I savored it.
I'm not ashamed to admit I cried.  

I don't think there is a lesson to be learned here. But I'll miss the little moments, the laughs, the friendships.
And I almost forgot—
All of that, with a Coke.